Indebted
by fandomfatale
Summary: Takes place after 3x13 - The Art of the Deal. Michael reflects on his quest for revenge, what he's leaving behind in Panama and why, and his friendship with Sucre. Full disclosure: Sucre isn't actually present in this story. Also: not a lot of plot.


INDEBTED

0000000000

Summary 

Takes place after 3x13 The Art of the Deal. Michael reflects on his quest for revenge, what he's leaving behind in Panama, and his friendship with Sucre.

Author's Notes 

I'm one of those crazy fans who deny the existence of the fourth season completely (for many, many reasons - some of which are legitimate), and after almost three years I pretty much have myself convinced. This is a one-shot that sort of launches my personal headcanon for how I would have things end if there was no fourth season. The AU is very light, it's largely canon compliant.

Michael and Sucre are my favorite relationship on the show - I just love their friendship SO MUCH - so this story (and most of my headcanon as well) is motivated by that. I don't ship them romantically, exactly (though not calling them my OTP is almost misleading), but I do desire an intensity to their relationship that could be equated with its romantic counterpart.

Disclaimer

These characters and their story do not belong to me. But they if they knew what was good for them they'd wish they did.

0000000000

There was a reason why Michael Scofield was in a cheap motel in Tijuana following James Whistler and Gretchen Morgan back into the U.S. and the bosom of The Company, and _not _soaking his feet in warm Panamanian waters and knocking Tecates with Lincoln.

And that reason wasn't revenge. Not really.

Michael feared that a part of him was broken.

Maybe he was never quite right.

It was Sara who had suggested that maybe he liked it. Maybe he was an adrenaline junkie.

And as his brother and nephew disappeared in the rearview mirror, Michael had to wonder if it was true.

He'd had the chance to shoot Gretchen, and he hadn't done it.

It wasn't him.

He had stopped Sucre from shooting Bellick, and Lincoln from shooting Mahone in vengeance.

So what the hell did he think he was doing, chasing down some woman he would never kill and some organization that he could never take down?

Maybe he just didn't know how to be free anymore. How to be happy.

He didn't deserve to be happy.

There was always _that_, too.

0000000000

Michael had almost turned back a couple of a times. He'd already had one opportunity to cross the border into San Diego, but he hadn't taken it. As he lay on his stiff motel bed in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, it crossed his mind once again that something not half bad – something so much better than he deserved - was waiting for him back in Panama and he was a fucking idiot if he didn't validate everything and everyone he had lost by living his goddamned life the best way he knew how, and with the person he had sacrificed everything for.

But Lincoln had Sofia now. It made Michael feel untethered. Like Lincoln didn't need him anymore. And if Lincoln didn't need him, then Michael had a price to pay. Because the price to free Lincoln had been steep – so much steeper than Michael had known it was going to be – and they were indebted to the dead.

It was all on him.

And he was caught between those two thoughts, like he was caught between believing he was like Sucre – whose heart was so big his first instinct _wasn't_ to leave T-Bag bleeding out on the floor of that garage the night of their escape from Fox River – and Lincoln, who didn't look back and didn't care about anyone but his immediate own and who hadn't even mentioned Veronica in weeks.

"Not everything's your fault, you know," Sucre had told him after he found out about Sara's death.

Sometimes Sucre was the one who knew what Michael needed to hear.

Michael called up that moment often.

Because he'd screwed over Sucre too. His cellmate had had less than two years left on his sentence in Fox River, but Michael had exploited his fears about Maricruz to convince him to help with the escape. He'd manipulated and calculated when he had to, and it was hard for Michael to remember - because somehow the man had become - simply put – his favorite person in the world, and the easiest person in the world for him to be around - but at one time Sucre had been just another cog in his plan. Sucre would have been a billion times better off if he had just stayed in prison and finished his time. Maricruz hadn't married Hector - everything would have worked out.

But Sucre was the one telling him that he wasn't always to blame.

And how good did that feel.

Because Sucre knew that escaping had been a mistake, but he still called Michael his best friend, and regarded him with an almost reverent gratitude.

And even thought that maybe his part in life had been to _help_ Michael and Lincoln

But many things _were_ his fault.

Many things.

Michael picked up the keys off of his nightstand and twirled them in his fingers.

Then he picked up his phone and looked at the empty place where his messages would have been reported.

Sucre had yet to call him back. It had been days since he had failed to show with the boat. Michael had been concerned then…he didn't know what to call what he was now.

Lincoln was angry that Michael left, even though the goodbyes had been cordial. He had yet to call as well.

Michael dialed his brother.

"Mike," Lincoln answered instantly. His tone was distant and formal, though there was a note of pleasure.

"Settling in? How's LJ? How's Sofia?" Excited, the questions poured out of him.

"Good. They let her out of the hospital today. We're still at that hotel downtown, but I've been looking for a place closer to the beach. I'm gonna open that dive shop, Mike."

Michael smiled. "I know you will."

"Whistler left Sofia some money. I used some of it to get a lawyer, and I think we've finagled you out of the charges against you. Without Sara they don't have much of a case."

"I'm not wanted anymore?"

"Not anymore, Michael. Not here. With a little money to grease the way, we've got it down officially that the warden who was killed by Gretchen released you, so you were never part of the escape attempt. It's all cleaned up."

Michael sighed.

"Where are you?" Lincoln asked.

"TJ."

"So they've left the country. Good. I was worried they might stick around to search for that fucking bird book."

"I can't say they won't be back."

"And you?"

Michael was silent for a minute. He wanted to tell Lincoln that he was coming back right then, but even in spite of everything he had gone through, it still seemed too easy. He had more suffering to do. Suffering for the people T-Bag had killed since he had escaped and those who had died on the block because of him, suffering for Tweener, for Veronica, for Charles Westmoreland. Suffering for Sara.

"I don't know, Linc."

"Listen, I'm glad you called, Michael. Uh..It's Sucre."

Lincoln heard Michael's sharp intake of breath, but couldn't see his terrified frown.

"What about Sucre?"

Linc sighed. "He's in Sona."

"_What_?"

"They must have found out he was involved somehow, and threw him in there. I'm going to visit him tomorrow."

"You should have sent him away. You should have made him leave!" Michael snapped.

"Hey! He _chose_ to stay. And we couldn't have done it without him."

"I never should have let him get involved."

Distressed, Michael ran a hand across his face.

"I'll talk to the lawy-" Lincoln began.

Michael didn't let him finish: "I'll be there in three days."

He left right away.

0000000000

Author's Notes

This is my first Prison Break story. Reviews are appreciated! Thanks for reading.


End file.
